Fire Flower
by StayGreenBDifferent
Summary: The life of an abnormal. Inspired by the history and plight of Helen Magnus,ever so slightly. One shot.


He sits in the corner of the hospice garden, his wheelchair angled so that the bright afternoon sun was not obstructing his vision. I sit beside him, on a stone bench. I glance at him, sidelong, and realize that his eyes had been closed not to shield him from the strong rays but from the memories that spring unbidden from the depths of his mind. Since I had moved him, those eyes had not opened. I waited. Finally, his eyes open. One look into those orbs tells me he knows. He knows what the orderlies and I, his granddaughter, have known for months and he accepts it.

"The end is nigh," He says, with calm certainty of age and not the religious zeal of a sidewalk preacher hell-bent on proclaiming the Rapture, "My death is finally, mercifully near. Let us hope this is a long one."

I draw a shuddering breath, preparing to ask what he means. He cuts me off, "I have seen much. Too much for one lifetime. Let an old man purge his soul."

I simply nod, knowing that this is how he asks for my silence. He has no need for empty platitudes, but an immense need for a pair of listening ears. I offer mine and he begins to excise his haunting demons in my company, banishing them as he speaks each aloud.

"This is merely the last in a long string of lives I have led. Each has had dark moments. War. Death. Too much…just too much. I was happy once, a young man, a squire, serving Roger Mortimer of Ludlow. I fell, at the age of twenty, yet unwed, during those damned Scottish Wars. I was buried on the land that my blood watered. The dishonor! The shame! I am Welsh, yet for the first death England bore my bones. In that hole, my corpse rotted, turned to dust. My soul sat watching, restless and unsettled. I was nowhere near to the peace the monks claimed came after death. A torrent of flame came up around the ashes after many a torturous year had passed and drew my soul back to them. The heat scorched and bound my flittering spirit to a corporeal form once more.

"I wakened, as if from a long sleep, a twenty year old man beneath the now grown tree that my burial marker sapling had become. I was in England, but not the England I had known. I could speak this new language, same as these strange people; I just couldn't find a place among them. Merchants have no need for squires. Sir Raleigh needed men some said, for Roanoke. I signed on, hoping that I would find my place in this strange new time in the mysterious 'New World in which we were to land. I died after we had landed. It was not long enough after to truly belong anywhere, however. I starved in the wildness that was the New World in the winter of 1587, a man of twenty- two, yet unwed.

"I woke again, burning, beneath that English tree. My inquires as to date and year were met with strange looks. When a young man finally indulged me, I was glad I could once again speak this new language, understand it. When the year 1607 passed his lips, I was unnerved. Had I been a woman, I would have fainted dead away."

I laughed slightly at the mental image he had painted.

My grandfather continued, "I asked the boy, 'do you have need for squires now?' He said no, but that the Virginia Company of London was looking for young men to go to the New World. He seemed to think that the region would be more accommodating to my 'less than stable mind' than England. I was inclined to agree, and so signed on to the expedition. I was twenty and strong, so Smith overlooked my tendency to recall the Scottish Wars. He merely shoved a musket in my hands, and after demonstrating the use of the strange thing, ordered me to guard the gate. I met my end at the end of an arrow protruding from my heart. In that moment I was glad it still belonged to no woman.

"More sleep, long and deep, but not nearly long enough. I woke again beneath that ancient English elm. Made the same inquires as those times before, garnering the same strange looks as I wandered the town. Someone finally pitied me, this strange man of twenty and told me the year. When he said it was 1769, I knew to ask about transport to the New World and not mention squires. He informed of a ship leaving for Virginia in two hours and, pitying me more than perhaps was healthy, paid my fare. It was twelve pounds, more money than I had ever seen at once. What charity! He obtained from me no promise of repayment and left me after bidding me good luck.

"I lived in Virginia for a time. I felt the stirring of a great rebellion from the colonies. The people wanted to cut ties with England, and the part of my heart that was still Welsh was glad to join in, though it was more for pride than protest of taxes. When the call came for men to take up arms under a new banner, I signed on, a man of twenty-six, and reacquainted with a musket I soon become. I distinguished myself as a good soldier in my rag-tag unit. I was also the man with tales of long ago days to while away the hours. I had expected to die honorably in battle, but two years into the war, my stories no longer interested the malcontented men at Valley Forge. I was one of many there to die of dysentery. The snow was red, my dear."

He paused and looked over at me. I nodded because I felt the need to respond though I knew it didn't really matter. He was staring at the past; he could not see me.

My grandfather started again, "My last thoughts in that life were that I died an American; I was no longer English nor was I Welsh. My last request was to be buried under the grass my blood had watered, where a sapling could spring up. My wish was granted. I was buried in that damned red field at twenty-eight, yet unwed. I was too soon by fire roused again. This time I woke beneath a strong tree not in England, but in that Valley. My wanderings and strange questions made people sure to keep their distance. Only one man closed the gap.

'No use playing dumb, ya nigger,' he sneered, 'you'll bring a bounty regardless of what year it is. Yer comin' back to Virginia with me, since ya keep askin' 'bout it.'

"He seemed to think I was African and that I had escaped my rightful servitude. I finally recovered enough from the shock of the accusation to look down and ascertain why. The fire had a sardonic sense of humor sometimes; it had browned my skin. I tried to assure him of my freedom, but as I had no papers-not that a page would have helped my cause- I was dragged to my home state's nearest auction. The fact that I was again twenty, strong, and still unfettered by ties to a woman assisted the man in securing a small fortune.

"It was 1828 in South Hampton when I was sold to Benjamin Turner. What inspiration three years of oppression and the God-sent words of Nat could be. I was happy to die with him. We had done something, scared them. Again, I came to in the Valley. First thing I did before setting off on what had become a ritual was look at myself. I was relieved to see what I did. I once again had pale skin and the assuredness of youth. I asked the now long familiar questions in the new form of English I once again grasped seamlessly for no known reason. A man said that the year was 1862, and that my beautiful Virginia no longer wanted, by and large at least, to be part of the Union.

"He told me that transport there was hard to come by. If I was looking for work, though, the 151st was recruiting around here. I signed on because, in honesty, there was nothing better to do. I distinguished myself again, in both story and shot. Again, I received a less-than-desired circumstance of death. I was wounded at Gettysburg, but survived, only to die the field hospitable of an infection the day after the battle."

He gave a short, bitter laugh.

"I slept again, under a white cross in a cemetery. I woke again, under that blasted tree in the Valley. I performed my dance of seeming insanity and finally heard that the year was 1917. The man who volunteered that much also suggested I enlist. And so, once more, Pennsylvania welcomed me and handed me a gun, even as I heard 'I Didn't Raise My Boy To Be a Solider' being hummed. I shipped out to France within six months and died in the Second Battle of the Marne only a few months after. I was only twenty-one and yet unwed.

"That damned tree in the Valley, old and strong, was what I saw when my eyes opened. I began my long perfected 'mad questioning' with resigned hysterics. I asked the year. I received looks and '1932' in answer from a brave few. They guided me to the nearest Works Progress Administration building and there I was able to secure employment at a National Park. President Roosevelt made good alphabet soup."

I smiled, catching the reference.

"I worked until I caught polio and died of the ensuing complications two years later. The fire burned hotter than the fever. This time, I merely asked where I could enlist. I saw too much patriotic propaganda around for there not to be a war going on. My questions were met for the first time with smiles and pointing fingers, for national pride had swept the country by 1943. I joined the Marine Corps, this time. I spent too long in the Army to go back again. By 1945, I was in the Pacific. I helped paint the black sands of Iwo Jima red before we hoisted that now immortal flag. Bullet to the heart. Finally, I had an honorable battle death at twenty-two, yet unwed.

"This last time, I woke in the Valley beneath the great tree. I preformed my dance of 'nearly certifiable' until someone took pity on me. The beautiful young lady said it was 1955 and offered me her couch for the night. She ignored the scandalous glances her neighbors gave with a skill I admired, even as it made me more than a little curious about the quality of her reputation. One night on her couch led to a week. Weeks became months. Months grew into years. I found my initial misgivings to be unfounded in 1958 and proposed. Your grandmother agreed; I believe that the college degree and banking job I acquired with help from her father played a large part in that. She gave my fifty years of wonder that woman, and two beautiful kids. I miss her."

He turned to me. His eyes were serious and I knew that this time he finally truly saw me.

"I smoked away the only happiness I had ever held. The tar took my lungs and landed me here. I killed myself with smoke, but what's worse is that I will be reborn by the same. I am eighty-nine, this is the longest and happiest I have been. Yet, I cannot die fully and delight in Mandy again. I must die in another war, damn it! Well, at least I have laid my poor bedfellows to rest as I spoke them to you, dear. They may choose to haunt with less fever my grave this time."

I threw him a skeptical glance. Though I loved my grandfather, the preceding tale made me seriously doubt his sanity. I started to call for an orderly, but my words were interrupted for the second time that day by a voice behind us in the hospice garden.

"No sir, you won't live to die in another war," a dark, chilling voice rumbled. "You sir, have finally managed to outlive your twenties and wed," A pale man in simple, all-black garb came to stand before us. "You will not be restless in the grave this time, my wayward charge, for you have someone waiting for you on the other side. You are a Phoenix; as such, ordinary death has no power over you. This time will be different, permanent. Peace will be yours in the arms of your beloved once more. For Death himself has come to collect, and with such collection comes the truest death. I will keep you, but you will be happy."

No sooner did he speak than did the strange man reach to touch my grandfather, who at the man's declaration had begun to smile widely, and stop the old man's heart. "You may call that orderly now," he said and disappeared, snapping me out of my stupor. I called, they came. Things happened around in the garden, but I'll be damned if I ever remember what they were. I sat on that bench and wept. First for the shock and fear of seeing Death, then for my grandfather, then for the realization that so much history had died in that hospice garden in Pennsylvania.

I came back to the hospice three weeks later, and planted a sapling in the garden. Forty years, later I woke up there, under that now grown tree, myself.

"Damn," I thought, "now _I _can't get off the merry-go-round of life!" I grumbled, although I realized that I did meet my grandfather's criteria for becoming a Phoenix. I had died at twenty, in a war. I was not yet wed. I heard a laugh on the wind and my grandfather voice gave this advice.

"Be happy. Don't fight in any more wars. Find someone to love, and be happy."

I smiled and pushed myself off of the green grass in the overgrown garden of the abandoned old building, ready to begin my version of grandfather's "hysterics." I would make good use of my second chance. Hopefully, it would be my only one.


End file.
